Brad shook his head. “You’re not in a position to dictate things.”
No other agent would be as protective as he would be of her. Another agent might take risks with her to capture their main target. He couldn’t allow her to become collateral damage.
He came forward and lifted a lid off a dish. The aroma of eggs and ham filled the air and made her mouth water. He looked at her neutrally. “Decide what you’d like to eat.”
Georgie folded her arms. “I’m not hungry.”
“Okay.” He reached for the plate of eggs.
“But I will take that.” She took the plate from his hand and turned back toward her bedroom. At least he wouldn’t get his way on the matter of breakfast.
“You don’t drink coffee?”
She turned and marched back to fill a cup with her free hand and added a splash of milk. She hadn’t moved but a few steps away before she heard the soft tread that meant he was following her. She swung around, spilling a little coffee. “Don’t come near me.”
He held up a napkin wrapped around flatware then tucked it under her arm. “You need to be ready to go into work in thirty minutes. Think you can manage that?”
Georgie pinched her lips together over the vulgar reply that came to mind, turned back around, and left the room, slamming her door with a kick.
Brad watched her walk away with more interest than was wise. The shorty pajama set she wore clung to her butt and her shapely bare legs, and had him thinking about the days, and especially nights, ahead. He could still remember the warm wash of pink beneath the patch of freckles on her cheeks as they’d made love. He recalled how her nipples budded like strawberries when he took them in his mouth. That thought had him rising in his pants. The memory of her silky red curls tangling about his fingers as if they were laying claim to him was just overkill. She was the real thing, a natural redhead.
None of that could matter now. He had a job to do.
Feeling like a man on deck of the Titanic with disaster staring him in the face no matter which way he looked, Brad shook his head in wonder at his own stupidity.
What the fuck had he gotten himself into?
Everything about her interested him in ways that were more than unwise, they were dangerous. Yet, not being in control of this mission would be more frustrating than dealing with Georgie Flynn in close quarters. Sacrifices were required. That meant keeping his libido and his hands, and other parts, to himself for the duration.
He turned back to the portable breakfast cart and lifted the napkin on crisp, perfectly browned waffles, his favorite. Eggs Benedict was his second choice.
Zander came up and gave him the look. “I know, I cheated to get the breakfast I wanted. Don’t rat me out.”
His partner woofed and wagged his tail.
They spent so much time together he often talked to Zander as if the dog was able to understand everything he said. Zander responded appropriately enough of the time to keep Brad wondering just how much he did comprehend.
Just for practice, he indicated that Zander check the breakfast cart.
Instantly alert, Zander raised his black nose and swiveled his head side to side, then he did a perimeter sweep of the cart. Nothing. He stopped in heel position by Brad and looked up, ears drooped in disappointment that he hadn’t found anything.
“Good dog.” He dropped a piece of bacon into his partner’s mouth. Nothing was a result, too. Unlike the military and most law enforcement K-9 units, who taught their dogs to work for a toy or ball reward, FBI K-9s worked on a food reward basis. Zander didn’t have a regular mealtime or eat out of the bowl. Zander worked to eat. Every piece of food that came to him came from Brad’s hand, even at home. That meant that Brad often wore cargo pants so that he was never without dog food and treats in his pockets.
When he had gulped down the rare indulgence of a cholesterol-and sugar-laden meal, Brad snapped on Zander’s leash. “Let’s take a walk.”
In the corridor, another federal agent in street clothes sat on a bench reading the paper. They nodded, the temporary handoff of suspect surveillance complete.
Chapter Six
Twenty-five minutes later, Brad was watching CNN when Georgiana reappeared in the suite’s main room. She wore a T-shirt, short jeans skirt, an army-green fatigue jacket, and sport shoes. A camera bag was slung over one shoulder. She cradled a camera hung by a strap around her neck while her photographer IDs hung from another lanyard around her neck. Her hair had been pulled back in a messy ponytail of curls. Her lips glistened with a sheer pink that made him think of dirty things he’d like to do to and with her mouth.
To distract himself from his thoughts Brad made his voice as cool as possible, the exact opposite of every other part of him. “Dressed for success?”